Marika Malaea

Mission: attend Adam and Laura’s wedding. We learned so much from the last wedding we went to, so this should be a piece of cake.

Piece. Of. Cake.

I say we need to leave around noon or twelve-thirty; this is because the Esq is we are chronically late for things, which drives me insane. I always pad the time a little, knowing if I say we’re going to leave at noon, we’ll really be leaving around one-thirty, which will just barely get us to the wedding in time. I know this about us, and cater to it. I’m like a lateness enabler.

So while I’m being all high-handed about Time and Schedule, it occurs to me that I haven’t washed my hair yet and I’m still wandering around in my underwear and OH MY GOD it’s 12:15pm. Hypocrite. The Esq helps me wash my hair, which is done while leaning over my clawfoot bathtub, wrecking my knees in the process. I feel like shit on a stick, and my mood is not improving.

We tear the house apart looking for my makeup bag, which is in another bag in another house. At that point, I throw myself a brief pity party while the Esq continues looking for a nicer version of his girlfriend. He doesn’t find her because she doesn’t exist; rather, she only exists when her tweezers and makeup bag are in hand. My hair won’t cooperate – when did I become Diana Ross? – and my toenails need clipping. I am falling apart, ungracefully.

Of course I start my period. OF COURSE I DO.

I briefly consider skipping the wedding – how can I go without makeup or cute hair or tweezed eyebrows or cute shoes? HOW, I ASK YOU? – but know that I’ll severely regret not going, so I adjust my nut sack and get on with it.

I can’t find anything. I’m tearing things apart, attacking our bottomless piles of who-the-hell-knows, and wishing! hoping! praying! for lip gloss, or mascara, or a thinner, less-injured body. I choose the tackiest, most amazing earrings I have – gigantic heart-shaped drop ‘diamonds’ – because only Laura would appreciate them. My black clutch is at my parents’ house, my eyebrows have gone all bushmen, my skin is super dry but I have no lotion, and I realize my newer coat is missing some buttons. Great, I’m going as a homeless man to this wedding. Awesome.

We finally leave, and get on the freeway by 1:45pm. I’m in a foul mood, despite the Esq playing a fairly good defense. I keep freaking out about the Esq’s driving, and the time, and the weather, and the music, and our LIFE – and then BLAM:  silent car ride for 75 minutes. You know, the kind without music or throat-clearing; the kind where you only hear angry breathing and the pavement change beneath the car. I was so fucking pissed off, I WAS SO MAD - what? No, I don’t remember why I was angry, quit asking stupid questions. Talk to my uterus if you want real answers.

We make up before arriving at the wedding with 15 minutes to spare – wander around the venue (GORGEOUS) – sign the guest frame (our well wishes include tacos, of course) – and sit in the back row. The decorations are, for lack of a better term, fantastical. Bright and cheerful colors everywhere – hot pink! purple! lime green! orange! – and the guests were dressed to match. I had a bit of an anger hangover, so we just sat and enjoyed the sunny weather, waiting for the bride.

Oh, the bride! I must say, she made the whole clusterfuck-of-a-day worth it, dancing down the aisle to Let’s Get Married by Jagged Edge in a poofy, glittering white dress, purple tights, and pink shoes with white polka dots. What, did I stutter? She looked amazing. She bumps-and-grinds right past us and says, “Hi, Marika!” I can’t stop giggling, which is always a good sign at a wedding.

I cry throughout the whole ceremony, when I’m not laughing out loud. Adam promises that the first day of their marriage, everything and nothing will change; Laura cries, laughs, laughs, cries. They read to each other from the awesome little book, I Like You, and I might be weeping. I cry through the whole reception, too, when I’m not playing Trivial Pursuit with the Esq; again, I blame the uterus. I’m entranced by a woman who’s wearing a Canadian tuxedo (denim on denim) in the form of a wedding-friendly jumpsuit; she’s very friendly, too. There is roasted pig for dinner – with a pig head holding court on the bride and groom’s table – and what looks like 32 cakes in assorted flavors. Serious. Yum. We stay for a while – four hours, actually – and head back to Seattle, drunk with love and laughter and Hennessey. Just kidding, Hennessey sucks. Came home and attacked the Esq, in a nicer way than I was attacking him before.

Congratulations to the newly-minted Lawrences! I – we – the universe – and humans everywhere – are so happy you found each other.

The LOLrences